


Convalescence

by princessbelle212



Category: South Park
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-03-20 19:21:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3661983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessbelle212/pseuds/princessbelle212
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gregory Langsdale is a professional fixer. He and his colleagues fix everything from relationships to media backlash to government corruption. But when his past returns from presumed death, will he be able to fix the one person who he needs most? Inspired by the ABC show Scandal. Warnings: Extreme violence, PTSD, explicit sex</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Gregory William Langsdale, of Yardale, the South Park Public School System, Stanford, and Harvard Law, was late. He’d had to stop for another cup of tea, even though the slop they served at Starbucks was weak and tasteless. Then the Green Line had gone down, and the station was packed. Given the anxious faces and tapping feet of the crowd of commuters in the D.C. metro, lateness wasn’t uncommon. The solidarity with his fellow commuters did little to comfort him, though, as his jaw clenched and unclenched the longer he stood waiting on the platform.

Tardiness was unacceptable, especially on a Friday. This was a fact that had been drilled into him by his father. Gregory could tell that the day was likely going to be a disaster. His whole morning had felt off. The beer from the night before had left him with a dull headache, and his shower was running cold again. His apartment’s heat wasn’t working well either, and he’d shivered uncontrollably even once he’d layered on his sweater and scarf. He’d poured his first cup of tea only to realize that he’d forgotten to restock on proper teabags. That cup plus his emergency Starbucks cup was nowhere near enough caffeine given his typical five-cup morning. He felt like he’d snap at anyone who stepped in front of him. Not an appropriate mental framework, he told himself firmly. It would do no good to show up at the office stressed to all hell, especially when Kenny and Bebe would doubtless still be celebrating their success with Butter’s case.

The thought of Butters Stotch made Gregory huff out a breath, and his lip quirked upward as his annoyance faded for a moment. The situation had been utterly absurd. Reveling in the fame and fortune of his last blockbuster hit, Butters had once again surrounded himself with curvaceous, lustful women. His manager had thrown a fit and called McCormick Langsdale Stevens, LLC, and they’d worked tirelessly for a week to avoid another tabloid front page with Butter’s face plastered all over it. Gregory never would have believed Butters capable of such scandal, but Kenny had just laughed and laughed through the whole project. Gregory had been annoyed at his levity, but when Kenny explained Butters’ lifelong crush on Kim Kardashian, Gregory had laughed along with him. Butters was doing well for himself, considering the hell that was growing up in South Park, and Gregory was proud that the team had been able to help him maintain his lifestyle. Plus, the company had received a hefty sum for their efforts.

He checked his watch again, sighed, and finished off the remnants of his tea. He would arrive at least twelve minutes late. Kenny and Bebe were responsible adults, he reminded himself, and surely they wouldn’t destroy the office in twelve minutes. They must’ve learned from last time. Aside from making Kenny alphabetically organize the stack of files that had been knocked off the desk in their enthusiasm, Gregory had considered leaving the walls of Kenny’s office scattered with the bullet holes. Then he’d decided it looked unprofessional and had begrudgingly had the whole bloody room repaneled. 

Kenny was excellent at his job, Gregory told himself. It didn’t matter that his presence increased their decorating budget, nor that he spent his relative wealth irresponsibly. Gregory had no control over Kenny’s decisions outside of the office, and had no desire to drive him off. Gregory had never met someone so able to talk information out of strangers, and Kenny’s reckless courage had saved both his life, Bebe’s life, and their clients lives on multiple occasions. He often reminded Gregory of- well. And Bebe, despite her fierce temper, was clever and kind and just as much an adrenaline junkie as Kenny and Gregory. Gregory was sure he’d have given up the business years ago without her determination and encouragement. Both of his colleagues were vital to his success. He just hoped they would be able to control themselves without his presence this time.

The arrival of the train broke him out of his reverie. “Bloody finally,” he muttered, and moved to toss his empty cup into the rubbish bin. As he turned to step towards the train, a low voice caught his attention.

“‘Ey, do you ‘ave a light?”

Gregory’s brain stopped for a moment, and he took a stumbling step away from the pillar where a homeless man he hadn’t noticed was sitting on the filthy tile floor, slumped and staring at him. His hair was a matted wreck, falling in clumps around his face, and his beard was scraggly and unwashed. His dark pants and heavy boots were caked with mud. One hand was clutched convulsively around the chain about his neck, and the other held out a dirty looking cigarette. Frozen, Gregory couldn’t do anything but gape as commuters rushed all around him. The hazel eyes of the man had dark circles and premature wrinkles, but the intensity and recognition in them was unmistakable. 

“I- how,” Gregory breathed, and took a step towards the man, reaching out. 

A rushing train passenger knocked into him before he’d gotten more than six inches and pushed him towards the train. In shock, Gregory stumbled back and boarded the train on autopilot, then realized what he’d done and turned to disembark just as the doors closed in front of him. He blinked, still unable to think, and found the man’s stare again. Their eyes stayed locked together until the train whisked him out of sight.

It was Christophe. It shouldn’t be possible, but it was Christophe. The voice, the eyes. Gregory would have recognized them anywhere. After its stall, Gregory’s brain kicked into a faster gear as his heart started pumping adrenaline through his system. What was Christophe doing in D.C.? He was supposed to be dead, put to rest in his beloved dirt, and Gregory was supposed to have moved on. They’d both known the risks when Christophe had joined up, and Gregory had accepted that Christophe had probably died doing what he was best at. He shouldn’t be alive. He shouldn’t be here, in the underground of the metro. He shouldn’t be homeless, begging for lights and cigarettes and he should have let someone, anyone but preferaby Gregory for bloody fuck’s sake, know he was alive.

Gregory’s breathing sped up as he tried to control the rush of emotions that was welling up. Anger, and pain, and joy, and confusion, and a deep deep sadness. His hands shook, and he looked wildly around, worried someone else on the train would sense his abnormal behavior. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, and the metallic taste that flooded his mouth helped to clear his head enough that he could formulate coherent thought. It might not have been Christophe; it could have been anyone. Christophe had had a rather average appearance, with his brown hair and muddy eyes, and his mind was probably filling in a strangers face with the details that were buried in his memory. And the voice, well. Surely it was common for homeless vagrants to have strange, French-like accents. And the smoking was nothing out of the ordinary either. And even if it was him, surely he would have stopped Gregory for more than a light. Surely he would have stopped Gregory from getting on the train, from leaving him again.

His breathing slowed again as he worked through the encounter. Most probably it was all just a result of the mild hangover and the lack of caffeine and the stressful morning. He would go to work and forget about everything else, and then maybe, at the end of the day, would see if the man was still there.

By the time the train arrived at his stop, Gregory had nearly managed to put the whole incident out of his mind. He headed to his office building, which was an old fashioned towering brick structure. The first floor lobby was modern, however, and clearly expensive. He smiled at Jim at the security desk, then slid his key card and got on the elevator, tapping his foot impatiently as the ancient relic made its way up to the top floor of the building. 

As he got off, he was entirely unsurprised to hear the raised voices of Bebe and Kenny, doubtlessly bickering over something menial. As soon as the metal doors clanged shut behind him, Bebe whirled around a corner and into the hallway, Kenny at her heels.

“I told him it was stupid!” she cried by way of greeting. “It’s an inappropriate use of office funds! But of course he wouldn’t listen to me, no. You’ve got to make him get it out of here!”

“Shut up, Bebe. It’s fucking badass. Hey, Gregory. Sup.” Kenny flashed Gregory a smile full of glittering teeth, and Gregory lifted his eyes up to the ceiling in a plea for patience.

“What in the bloody hell have you done this time, Kenny,” Gregory sighed, sweeping past both of them and into Kenny’s small office.

A large red plastic keg now stood displayed prominently in the corner of the room, a garish NASCAR sticker plastered on it. It clashed horribly with the dark oak and tasteful crown moulding of the rest of the room.

“That had better not have beer in it, Kenny. We have plenty of scotch, and you know my opinions on beer in the workplace,” Gregory said, annoyance making his headache pang. He turned a glare towards Kenny, who rolled his eyes.

“Of course not. How much of a complete moron do you think I am? No, it’s got lemonade in it. The non-alcoholic kind. For fucks sake.”

“Still, it’s hardly professional!” argued Bebe, leaning against the doorframe and glaring at the offending piece of paraphernalia. “What sort of people do you want our clients to think we are?”

“People who know how to have fun, obviously,” said Kenny. “Look, not all of our clients are these stuffy suit-tie-and-trust-fund types, yeah? What about the businessmen with new money, and the fucking rednecks who happened to strike it rich? We’ve worked for them in the past, and you gotta admit that the’d feel more comfortable in the presence of a like-minded individual.” He flashed another grin and took a bow. “You two are great for the uppity suit types. I’m just trying to make us seem more well rounded.”

Gregory sighed. Kenny, as a co-founder, could do what he liked with his office, and even without formal education, his business sense was impeccable, especially when it came to other people. “Fine, I don’t give a damn. Just keep the door shut when we have important clients. Just looking at it gives me a headache. Bloody Americans.” He turned his heel and marched into his own office.

He slammed the door behind him and leaned against it until his jaw stopped clenching reflexively. Though the room was lushly decorated with antique rugs and wood paneling, it was almost clinically neat. Gregory hated clutter. It reminded him too pointedly of his earlier life. There was a precise stack of follow-up paperwork from Butters’ case on his desk that needed to be finished. He sighed, glanced over at the small end table that held his scotch, then reminded himself that drinking at nine in the morning was not in any way professional. He sat down at his desk, tried to forget about the morning, and started signing documents on the appropriate lines. 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Bebe opened the door and brought him a mug of tea- proper tea, not the Starbucks shit he’d slurped down that morning. 

“So,” she said, setting the mug down on the desk for him. “What’s up with you?”

Gregory raised an eyebrow at her, then picked up the mug and took a long sip. 

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”

“Oh, come the fuck on, Gregory. You hate when we work for those redneck businessmen Kenny was talking about.”

“Bills have to be paid,” Gregory replied stiffly, narrowing his eyes.

“Yeah, I know that. But you take every pleasure in making them feel as uncultured and ignorant as possible every time you shake their hands. Solidarity with the masses they oppress, or whatever bullshit you tell yourself. I expected you to flip your shit with Kenny wanting to make them feel more comfortable. And anyway, that’s clearly just an excuse for him to make his office as hideous as a men’s locker room.”

“How often do I truly flip my shit?” Gregory asked. “I just happen to believe that Kenny has control over his work environment, and that we should all endeavor to accept our colleagues’, ah, nuances of personal taste.”

“That’s some total HR bullshit, Gregory. I’ve known you since undergrad. Something’s up. And you’ve signed the wrong section of this report.” Bebe plucked the first sheet of paper from the top of his inbox. “And your hands are shaking, darling. If you need to talk to someone, I’m here.”

Gregory’s mouth thinned, and he swallowed. Bebe was a lovely person, and she really did mean well. But she didn’t need to be bothered with his personal nonsense. “I just-” He cleared his throat. “It was a bit of a rough morning, that’s all. I just need to get my mind focused. It’s probably a lack of tea, so thank you. This will help.” He lifted the mug in a toast to her, and gave her a tight-lipped smile.

Bebe studied his face for a few moments, then sighed and nodded. “Okay, if you say so. But my office is right next door, in case you need anything.”

“Of course,” replied Gregory, and she left him alone.

He ran a hand through his thick hair, messing up the careful styling that had gone into his curls, then shook his head. He corrected the error he’d made, double checked the work he’d already done, and started to edit their new contract. Their previous confidentiality agreement had had a loophole, which was unacceptable. McCormick Langsdale Stevens, LLC had to set a standard of supreme discretion if they wanted the sort of clients that Gregory was determined to obtain.

The time ticked by steadily, and Gregory’s focus only broke once when Kenny barged in with a roll of cream crackers. “At least eat something, even if it is this nasty shit,” he said, and left Gregory alone again.

The crackers were enough to sustain him for the rest of the day, and the sun was down before Gregory realized how long he’d been sitting at his desk. He rolled his head, a few vertebrae popping, and got up to leave. 

“No new calls today?” he asked Bebe as he passed her office on the way to the door. She shook her head, and he smiled and nodded back at her. It would be a quiet weekend then. The payment they’d received from Butters’ management was more than enough to fill their needs for a few weeks.

Ordinarily he’d stay at the office until at least nine or ten in the evening, even on a Friday, but he was anxious and unsettled. He wanted to get back to the metro station. Neither Bebe nor Kenny commented on his early departure, and he was grateful. His pace quickened the closer he got to the station, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when he saw that the green line was fully operational again, and the delay had been rectified.

On the train, he tapped his fingers against the handhold, trying to will the train to faster speeds. The woman next to him raised her eyebrows at him when he moved too far and bumped into her. He murmured an apology and gave her a winning smile, feeling like an idiot. He tried to calm down for the rest of the ride, which seemed to take longer than the rest of his day put together. 

Adrenaline was racing through him again by the time the train lurched to a halt at his stop. He stumbled out of the train in his haste, and looked around wildly for a sitting figure. He couldn’t remember exactly where he’d seen the man, and he started to feel a panicked disappointment rising into his throat when the station appeared empty. As the woman he’d bumped pushed past him, however, he took a step to the side and caught a glimpse of a half-gloved hand from around the opposite side of a pillar. 

Gregory managed to restrain his cry of relief and took a moment to collect himself before strolling casually over to examine the person sitting on the other side of the column.

The man was slumped, staring at the ground, and seemed not to notice his approach until Gregory stopped directly in front of him. It was the same man, Gregory could tell from the clothes. He just needed to see his face. He cleared his throat.

“Did you ever find that light you were after?” he asked, his voice barely carrying over the background noise of the metro station.

The man’s head shot up, and Gregory froze in place under the intensity of the glare. It was Christophe. He had no doubt now. He’d seen that glare too many times. He let out a soft breath, a look of wonder spreading over his face.

“Go ze fuck to ‘ell and let Satan fuck you in ze ass,” Christophe spat.

Gregory let out a noise that was meant to be a laugh, but it sounded like a sob to his ears. He fell to his knees on the dirty tile of the station in front of Christophe, incredulous. He was composed enough to not fling his arms around him, but he reached out a shaking hand and touched two of his fingertips to Christophe’s scruffy cheek.

Before he knew what was happening, he was spun around, his arm twisted painfully behind him, trapped against Christophe’s chest. Christophe’s other hand squeezed tightly around his throat. He couldn’t breathe.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Christophe breathed into his ear. His breath stank of cheap alcohol and cheap cigarettes, and Gregory struggled to get away. The grip at his throat was more painful than anything he’d felt before, and he realized in a flash just how much Christophe had been holding back when he’d taught him to fight all those years ago. He was running out of air, and he believed in that instant that Christophe was truly going to choke him to death.

“Tophe,” he tried to say, and stopped tugging at the hand at his throat. He held it up in a gesture of peace, and Christophe let him go.

Gregory fell forward onto one hand, and sucked in air. He turned and matched Christophe’s glare with his own. “What the hell are you doing, you prat,” he rasped, “there’s a thousand people about!”

Christophe wasn’t looking at him, however. He was staring down at his own shaking hands, a look of confused terror on his face. His breath shuddered, and he slowly looked up to meet Gregory’s eyes. The guilt and pain Gregory saw in his expression melted his flash of anger away, and he felt a prickling at the back of his eyes.

“Oh my god, Christophe,” he said, and blinked rapidly.

 

“God is a bitch,” Christophe muttered, then pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Gregory. I am ‘allucinating, oui? I do not even remember what I am doing ‘ere.” He met Gregory’s eyes again, and shook his head. “Are you real? Dites-moi. I thought I ‘ad imagined you zis morning. And every morning. Oh, fuck, your throat. Fuck. Fucking fuck.” His voice was utterly distraught, and Gregory glanced around, worried that the people passing by would alert the authorities to potential trouble. 

“Christophe. I’m going to help you to your feet, yes? Come on.” Gregory reached out and gently took Christophe’s hand. Christophe tensed for a moment, but eventually he gripped back. Gregory could feel the trembling in his hands as he pulled Christophe to his feet.

Christophe was several inches taller than him, but he stood with a defeated sort of slump that made him look much smaller than he actually was. He bent down to pick his pack up off the station floor from where he’d been sitting on it, and Gregory could make out the end of the shovel. Any lingering doubts he had about the identity of the man in front of him vanished the moment he saw it. Christophe and his shovel were essentially one being, and Gregory felt the pesky pricking at the back of his eyes again.

“God,” he muttered, trying to control himself, and took Christophe’s hand again. “Come on. I’m taking you home.”

Christophe froze, pulling away. “Home?” he whispered, fear in his voice.

“My new apartment. Here. In D.C. It’s just a few blocks.” 

“Oh.” Christophe let out a shuddering sigh, then nodded and took Gregory’s hand again, his grip tight enough to grind Gregory’s bones together. “Good. D’accord.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter, aside from usual South Park language.

They walked back to Gregory’s flat in silence. Christophe still clung to his hand like a terrified child, for all that he was over six feet tall. Gregory watched him. He caught Christophe’s eyes flicking to the corners of each intersection they passed, and scanning the facades of the buildings. Any time another pedestrian came within two feet of them, Christophe’s grip tightened and Gregory could sense a shift in his posture. A siren blared as an ambulance came hurtling around a corner in front of them, and Christophe yelled and darted for cover, dragging Gregory with him. His eyes were wild and his breath was hissing out between his teeth. Tentative, Gregory reached out and gripped Christophe’s shoulder with one hand. This seemed to help calm him enough, and they were able to resume their walk.

Gregory didn’t let go of his hand again as they made their way up the two flights of stairs to his flat, and kept holding on as he fumbled one-handed for his keys. He was still in a daze as he managed to get the door unlocked, pushed the door open and watched Christophe step inside and look around. The filthy man looked utterly out of place, and Gregory could sense his discomfort as he glanced around, taking in the modern and impersonal decor.

The flat was small, but so well decorated that it looked like it had come straight out of a home decorating catalogue. Gregory kept it tidy, of course, and there was no sign on first glance that anyone inhabited the space at all. He realized in a flash how alien the place really was to him. He spent most of his time in the office, and every time he went home it felt like he was staying in a well equipped hotel suite instead of a lived-in apartment. It was entirely different than the flat he’d shared with Christophe, back when-

He cleared his throat and stepped in behind Christophe, locking the door’s many bolts. Christophe flinched and glanced at the door, but gave Gregory a tight smile when he caught his eyes.

“So,” Gregory said. He had so many questions clamoring about in his head that he had no idea what to say. He opted for standing and staring.

“You live in zis shit?” Christophe asked him, gesturing at the unnecessary decorations. “Who ze fuck put all zis useless shit in ‘ere? You must ‘ave ‘ired a maid or something to keep it looking like fuckmerde like zis.”

Gregory blinked at him. He hadn’t been expecting a question that was so normal. He fought to collect his thoughts and managed to reply with a noncommittal hum. 

Christophe glanced at him, then away, then back to him again. His dirty hair was falling over his eyes so Gregory could only make out half his face. 

“Er, your accent,” Gregory finally managed, an innocuous question making its way to the forefront of his racing mind. His eyes felt pinched tight around the edges. He cleared his throat again. He couldn’t seem to moisten it adequately. “It’s back, I mean. You’d all but lost it before and now it’s back. I almost didn’t realize- I mean, why? What the hell-” he broke off, unable to determine what exactly it was that he wanted to ask.

“Oh,” Christophe said, then shrugged. “Who gives a fuck about that? I can turn it off again if it is pissing off your delicate fucking flower maiden senses. It just is a little more to concentrate.” 

The ease with which Christophe flowed back into familiar speech patterns was disconcerting. He sounded so normal, and it felt so normal to have him sitting on the couch leaving dirt stains on the upholstery. Gregory kept staring at him, feeling like he was going mad. It was like he’d never left, like Christophe had forgotten the sorry image he’d made, sitting in a heap in the metro. Like the years of crushing loneliness and guilt and anger had been a fleeting nightmare. His brow furrowed for a moment, and he pulled himself out of the way of the emotional freight train barreling towards him.

“Do you, er, want tea or anything?” The question sounded pathetic even to his own ears, and he regretted the words as soon as they’d left his mouth. Christophe hated tea, but it was habit to offer.

“I hate fucking bullshit leafs in my drinks,” Christophe said, one corner of his mouth quirking up. “Tea is for fucking pussies sucking on the teat of capitalism and shit like that. But if you have a lighter, I will think you are better than fucking God, who is probably up there sitting on his celestial fucking shitter, hah.” The smirk blossomed into a full grin. It was a familiar expression, and it made something twist in Gregory’s stomach. He’d never seen Christophe grin like that at anyone else.

Gregory cleared his throat again. “I have a light, sure.” He turned away, his eyes prickling once more, and ground his teeth together as he walked into the kitchen and started shuffling through drawers. He hadn’t been smoking recently. He found the lighter hiding behind a stack of tupperware. It was a standard Bic, and was ancient and smudged with dirt and rust. Christophe had left it in his possession.

When he walked back towards the couch, Christophe was toeing off his boots and dirt was falling off them in chunks. Gregory narrowed his eyes until Christophe looked up at him, then he raised an eyebrow. Christophe looked guilty for a split second, then he glared ferociously.

“Did you find ze fucking lighter or what?” he growled up at Gregory, his accent coming through in his annoyance.

Gregory held it out towards him. “I’d really prefer if you smoked outside, you know,” Gregory replied coolly, unfazed by Christophe’s ridiculous attempt at intimidation. “This landlord is not as lenient as you would prefer, and I rather like the architecture of the building. I would hate to be kicked out.”

Christophe, predictably, flipped him off with both hands, then lunged forward and snached the lighter. Gregory rolled his eyes, then turned to dig the ashtray out from under a stack of books. He set it on the table nearest Christophe and moved over to open the windows. He leaned against the wall waited until the cigarette was half down before speaking again. “So. What in the bloody goddamn hell were you doing in the metro? I thought you were dead, you know.”

Silence stretched between them. Gregory could see the tense set of Christophe’s shoulders as he continued smoking the cigarette, inhaling and exhaling puffs of smoke in a rhythm that was painfully familiar. Christophe started chewing on the butt of the cigarette when it was burned to the filter, but didn’t reply. Frustrated, Gregory opened his mouth to change the subject and stop the awkwardness when a loud car horn blared on the street below. It was loud enough to make him jump and whirl to stare at the street. He wasn’t used to having the window open.

When he turned back around, Christophe had dropped to a defensive crouch, the top of his head barely visible over the arm of the couch. Gregory glanced back out at the street again, then slammed the window closed. His landlord could go straight to Hell if he fought with Gregory over the cigarette smell. Some things were more important. He shut the curtains too, blocking out the ambient light from the street and leaving the room lit with only the soft light of his floor lamps.

Christophe hadn’t moved, and Gregory could hear his breath starting to come in panicked whimpers. Gregory walked over to him as slowly as he could, not wanting to startle him further. When he crouched down in front of Christophe, he could see that Christophe’s eyes were wide and terrified. The whites were showing all around his irises, bloodshot and bleary. 

“Christophe,” Gregory said, his voice soft but firm. “Christophe. It’s all alright.” Christophe’s eyes turned to meet his, and when their gazes locked, he seemed to realize how his breathing sounded. The noise stopped. Gregory’s palms itched. He could see the pulse pounding away in Christophe’s neck, and he wanted to press his palm there to calm him. Such a movement would surely be foolish, though. He let out a hissed breath, and settled down onto his knees. Christophe slowly moved out of his crouch as well, and sat facing Gregory. His face turned a ruddy color under the mud, and Gregory could see the furious humiliation behind his eyes.

“Désolé,” Christophe muttered, and shrank in on himself.

“Ne- ne t’en fais pas,” Gregory said, and was pleased at how normal his voice sounded. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d needed to use his French.

Christophe didn’t move out of the ball he’d curled himself into as he spoke again. “I needed the underground. And I thought- I had maybe hoped a little. You always hated wasting gas and cars and all that fucking bullshit. Fucking pussy.”

Gregory’s brow furrowed and he tried to parse what Christophe meant. The bit about being underground was in no way surprising. But it still made no sense. There was no reason for Christophe to be in DC at all. Hell, he shouldn’t be in the damn country. Tiredness suddenly crept up on him, and he let out a sigh. It wasn’t important, in the end. Christophe was here, somehow. Miraculously. He was here and breathing and utterly, predictably filthy. 

“Well, regardless,” he said, his voice snapping. He got to his feet and held up a hand to get Christophe up. “You’re staying here tonight, and there’s no argument you can possibly pose that I’ll listen to. And you are taking a bloody fucking shower. No argument on that, either.” Christophe glared up at him, but Gregory fixed him with the cool steely look that always broke down Christophe’s will. He was rewarded with a fierce scowl, but Christophe took his hand anyway and got to his feet. 

“Fuck that fucking shit,” Christophe muttered, but he took off the bulky jacket he was wearing and tossed it onto the couch. Underneath, his green t-shirt was sweat-stained, but Gregory didn’t pay it any mind. Christophe was scrawny and looked like he’d wasted away. Gregory was used to seeing defined lines of muscle across his chest, but the shirt hung baggily on him. A pang of worry shot through him, and his jaw started clenching again. Christophe noticed his stare and his shoulders slumped down, which only served to make him look smaller.

“Er, the bathroom is through the bedroom. Towels are in the closet there. And there is soap in abundance. Use it, Christophe, or I’ll only make you go in again.”

He was surprised when there was no answering argument, nor an inappropriate comment, and felt dizzy and disoriented as he watched Christophe stalk off in the direction he’d indicated. His head ached, and he rubbed at his forehead for a moment. What the actual fuck. Thought and emotion threatened to overwhelm him again, and he closed his eyes so he could strengthen his mental barriers. Alcohol was an excellent invention. Bebe had bought him a rather excellent bottle of gin. He walked over to the liquor cabinet. His movements felt robotic. The bottle reflected the warm light, and the liquid sloshed into a glass just as his ears registered the noise of the shower being turned on. Gregory let out a breath, then swallowed down the generous portion he’d poured himself in one swallow.

The gin burned and tasted of the pine trees on the mountains. A memory of Christophe’s face, young and calm and briefly dead, surfaced, and Gregory coudn’t suppress the strangled sound before it clawed its way out of his throat. He closed his eyes again, counting slowly down from ten. He ought to call Bebe. He wasn’t about to leave Christophe alone. Thank fuck it was the weekend.

His eyes were stinging again. How annoying. He rubbed his fingers on them until they stopped, then fished his phone out. His list of contact numbers was quite short. His therapist had commented on it, on his ‘lack of social motivation,’ but he never had seen the point of adding numbers he would never use. Bebe’s information was listed first. He dialed her and poured himself another glass while the phone rang.

She picked up on the second ring. “Gregory?” she asked, her voice sounding tinny through the connection. It made Gregory’s head throb. “Oh, thank fuck! You’ve got to come in tomorrow. Wendy called, and Kyle called Kenny, and we’ve got to stop that fat asshole before he causes a media shitstorm!”

Gregory blinked, confused for a moment, then caught on to what she was saying. “Oh. Right, of course. I’m not surprised, really. He can only go so long without seeing his name splashed all over the headlines. We’ll deal with it.”

“Yeah, as long as we can make sure he doesn’t drag anyone else through the mud with him! We’ve taken care of what we can tonight, but we’re going to need to have Kyle come in tomorrow.”

“What is it this time, blackmail? Violation of privacy? Assault?”

“I don’t know! Wendy sounds pissed, though, so probably a combination.”

Gregory sighed. Whoever had allowed Cartman into Washington needed to be incarcerated for a very, very long time. “Right. Well, we’ll deal with it. Er, listen.” His concentration broke for a moment as he heard the shower turn off. That couldn’t have been long enough for all the dirt. “Is there still that extra desk space?”

“Yeah, but I think Kenny had some crazy idea about turning it into a kitchen area or something. Why?”

“No reason,” Gregory said quickly. “It’s just- look, nevermind. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. Tell Wendy to keep an eye on Stan. We can’t have him make a fool of himself until we know exactly what’s going on. I’ll dig up the old files.”

“Cool, thanks!” Bebe hung up without a goodbye, and Gregory was left staring at his phone. 

Of course Cartman was stirring up nonsense now, when things were as complicated as possible. He drank his second glass of gin and fetched his laptop from out of his bag. The files they’d collected from the various scandals Cartman had initiated were labeled clearly, and Gregory let his mind delve into rereading the ones that had involved Kyle. It was a relief to be able to think about something so ordinary, and he lost track of how much time had passed when Christophe came out of the bedroom.

Gregory glanced up at him, and felt his mouth thin into a line. Christophe had shaved, even, but without the dirt marring his face, Gregory could see just how gaunt he looked. He was wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist, and his ribs were clearly visible. It looked like there were several new scars scattered along his torso, and Gregory’s palms itched again. He clenched his hands into fists.

Christophe must have felt the anger in his gaze, because he lifted his hands in a defensive gesture. “Look, princesse, I did not want to just take your clothes without asking. You probably do not have anything that is actually fucking comfortable. How are you still even wearing that fucking tie? Fucking hell. I just will take some sweatpants or some shit. I figured you would not want me to wear that shirt even though it is not that fucking bad and I do not feel like listening to your bitching.”

“Fuck you,” Gregory replied. He closed his laptop, though, and got up. “I’ll get you some. Do try not to muss them up too terribly. Dirt is a rather difficult stain to get out, as I’m sure you know. There’s some fruit in the fridge. You should have some.” He brushed past Christophe, managing not to stare more closely at his chest, and walked into his bedroom.

There was a trail of discarded clothing strewn about the floor, and he rolled his eyes. Christophe had forgotten to turn the fan on in the bathroom, too, and the mirror was starting to drip with condensation. He ignored the mess, though, and dug out a pair of his athletic gear from the back of his dresser. Ordinarily he’d be worried about Christophe stretching it out of shape, but with Christophe looking so scrawny, they’d likely only be a bit short around the ankles. 

Tiredness swept over him again, and he leaned heavily against the dresser for a moment, clutching the spare clothes. He flicked a fallen piece of hair out of his eyes, then gathered up the strength to walk back into the living room.

Christophe looked up guiltily. The counter was strewn with six apricot pits, and a seventh was crammed halfway into Christophe’s mouth. Gregory felt his mouth twitch. As a child, he’d detested apricots, but after years of having them scrawled messily onto his grocery list, he’d grown rather fond of them. Christophe hadn’t lost his fondness for them either, it seemed.

“These ought to fit you,” Gregory said, and handed over the clothes. “Do toss those in the trash, please. It’s under the sink.” He rolled his eyes again. It had been an hour and he was nagging already. Christophe grinned at him, showing off the orange bits stuck between his teeth.

“Whatever you say, mon capitain.” He said something that Gregory couldn’t understand. Russian, perhaps. Gregory quirked a curious eyebrow at him, but Christophe just grinned again in response.

“Anyway,” Gregory said, his brain switching to an entirely different set of thoughts. “Are you still as good at computers? I may need your help with something.”

Something dark passed over Christophe’s face and Gregory was worried he was going to panic again. Christophe smiled at him though, tight lipped and brittle, and seemed to regain control of himself. He nodded at Gregory. “I can hack into fucking anything, princesse. The best in the fucking world.”

“Yes, I’m completely certain of that,” Gregory drawled. “Well, maestro, if you’re that good, I might as well hire you on. We’re in need of those sort of skills.”

“You and Kenny and Bebe, ouais? Saving the world or some shit with them. That is okay, I guess.” 

Gregory nodded, and wondered how Christophe knew.

“You get shit about you written in the paper sometimes,” Christophe said in answer to the unasked question. “You and some of the other bitches. I am surprised at how many of us have managed to make it all the fucking way here. We are dumb as fuck for leaving behind all the legal pot, hah.”

“Mmm.”

“Well, I guess I will help you. Just- hey. Do not fucking tell anyone else except for them that I am here, ouais? I am fucking serious about this, Gregory.”

That gave Gregory pause. Christophe called him by name only rarely, and only ever as emphasis. He nodded again, watching Christophe warily. Something serious was going on, and Gregory wasn’t at all sure he was equipped to deal with whatever had dropped Christophe off like a piece of useless luggage in the D.C. metro. It made no difference in the end, though. Christophe needed him, and Gregory would just have to glean information about the situation when he could. 

He nodded at the couch. “Sleep there. We’ll go to the office early tomorrow.”

“Whatever.” Christophe went back into the bedroom to put the loaned clothes on, and Gregory tossed the apricot pits into the rubbish.


	3. Chapter 3

The haphazard dream full of blood and fractured glass ended, and Gregory woke up with an aching loneliness in his chest and a headache already forming behind his eyes. He’d been doing so well with the nightmares. It’d been months since he’d dreamed of Christophe dying. His therapist wouldn’t be pleased. He dug his fingers into his eyes, rubbing away the bleary sleep, then sat fully upright, heart racing. He’d forgotten, in the moment of waking, what had happened the previous day. Christophe. Glancing around, he found the filthy pile of rags in one corner, discarded without thought. The sight was painfully familiar, and his head throbbed as a lump formed in his throat. He jumped out of bed, threw on an old t-shirt and a fresh pair of pants, and raced out into the living room.

Christophe was there, pacing a perimeter and staring out the window at the buildings across the way. He looked a little better: shaggy hair longer than usual but clean and falling softly around his face, clothes not covered in dirt, relatively rested, but not as rested as Gregory would have liked. He turned when Gregory entered, the line between his eyebrows deep with suspicion and worry. He looked haunted by something, his eyes wide and darting, but the crazed, instinct-driven creature he’d encountered at the train station seemed to be more under control. When his eyes focused on Gregory, though, the line smoothed out as he flicked his eyes down Gregory’s half-dressed body, lingering on his bare legs. He quirked an eyebrow and his lip curled into a smirk. He didn’t say anything, though, and Gregory refused to be embarrassed. Christophe had seen him in far more compromising positions, and this was his bloody apartment, and it was the weekend, and it was probably a good sign that Christophe could still look at anyone at all that way.

“This place is a shithole for security,” Christophe said, closing the blinds. “Anyone over on the other side of the street could look right fucking in here and shoot you, pas problem. There are a hundred rifles on the market now that would have no problem with the range. And you don’t have any security cameras, and only two locks on the door, and I cracked your computer in about three minutes. What the fuck is that? I thought I taught you better. It’s a fucking miracle you are not dead. I could barely sleep with everyone who could be watching. You don’t know who is looking for me.” A touch of paranoia crept into his voice, and he started slouching down into a defensive crouch.

Gregory’s brow furrowed. “Well, I’ve had far fewer people out for my blood now that I’m not living with a wanted covert operative and attempting to thwart the corruption of the government via legally dubious means. It’s been much easier.” As soon as he said it, his stomach twisted. It was easier, true, and emptier, and less meaningful, and lonelier. That statement had likely done nothing good for Christophe’s mental state. He grimaced at Christophe, then went to go dig in the fridge. “That’s not exactly what I meant. No one knows you’re here, I haven’t told anyone, and it’s perfectly safe. This is a very good neighborhood, but if it worries you, feel free to leave the blinds closed. I’m sure I can invest in something more secure, if you’re-” he cut off. He couldn’t assume Christophe would be staying, or he’d undo all his progress. “Now, what do you want for breakfast? I’m having toast, but I think I’ve some bangers in here somewhere, or some eggs.”

Christophe had apparently relaxed enough to sit back down on the couch. “I don’t want your British fag shit. If you are going to make me eat breakfast, then I will have some yogurt or some baguette, if you have any.” When Gregory shook his head, he scowled. “I was in France for two years, you know. I got used to their breakfasts again. Omlette, then, if it has to be something, even though c’est plus approprié pour déjuner.” He went back to staring out the window, and Gregory bustled about, putting on tea and cracking eggs to make an omlette and trying not to ask what exactly Christophe had been doing in France when he was supposed to be working American intelligence. 

He made himself some plain buttered toast, then took the plates over to the table. “You’re not eating on the couch. Come sit. We have to be quick, then go into the office.”

Christophe got up, then looked at the table. He scowled at the chairs, then moved them around so he wouldn’t have his back to the window. He began eating without complaint, though, stuffing egg in his face. For all his complaining, Gregory could tell how hungry he was. 

The paranoia Christophe was displaying was worrying, though. Christophe had always been paranoid, of course, ever since they were children, but the way he kept his eyes on the windows, like he was waiting for something inevitable to happen, had Gregory on edge too. Gregory wanted to ask what had happened, had so many questions flicking through his head, but he didn’t know how to begin to broach the subject. Asking him why he wasn’t dead seemed far too callous. So Gregory just pushed his questions aside and quietly ate his toast and sipped his tea, feeling uncomfortable at how ordinary it felt to have Christophe sitting next to him again, like he’d never left.

“So,” he said once his toast was gone and Christophe’s omlette had vanished from his plate into his mouth and onto his face. Gregory handed him a napkin. “You said you can hack now. When did that happen?”

Christophe shrugged, wiping off his face and leaving bits of egg fallen to the table. “Had to learn quickly,” he said. “Got taught by the best. I’m not a genius at it or any shit, but I know my way around the newer technologies. Unless you are trying to access the top-level classified shit at the CIA, I’ll be able to get into most government departments.”

“What about corporate files?”

“Depends how rich they are, and how legal their business is.” He quirked an eyebrow at Gregory. “If it’s Cartman’s network you are asking about, which I know it is, then yes. I can get into it. He’s not as smart as he thinks he is. He hired the wrong people.”

Gregory nodded. “Well, good. You can borrow some of my clothes. I won’t make you wear a suit, but you’ve at least got to look like you’re a professional. The firm has an image to maintain and Bebe will kill me if I allow you to run about like a savage. And wash your face- I don’t care that you showered last night,” he added quickly as Christophe opened his mouth to argue. “And brush your teeth. There’s a spare. It’s green.” All of his guest toothbrushes had been green. He couldn’t get out of the habit of buying them.

Christophe glowered at him but headed into the bathroom without further complaint. “Keep the blinds closed while I’m not in there, princesse,” he called over his shoulder.

Gregory rolled his eyes and tidied up breakfast, then went to his closet to rifle through his clothes until he found a proper orange button-down and some pressed slacks. He did without the tie. It was still Saturday, after all. He also managed to find some jeans and a decently clean t-shirt for Christophe. It was black and plain and more expensive than any t-shirt ought to be, and he hoped Christophe wouldn’t destroy it. 

He didn’t hear when Christophe came out of the bathroom, but jumped out of his skin when he felt arms wrap around his waist from behind. Christophe buried his nose in Gregory’s hair, inhaling, and his hand started to creep down towards Gregory’s hip.

Gregory’s heart started thudding wildly, a sick feeling churning in his stomach. Guilt and anger and longing mingled with an equally deep pain. He tensed, going completely still. No one had touched him like that, he hadn’t wanted anyone to touch him like that, not since-

“Christophe,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “Stop. Stop.” He started to twist away, but Christophe let go of him almost immediately. Gregory stumbled forward, then turned to look at him.

Christophe’s face was confused and frustrated, and Gregory felt his guilt increase. But still, he couldn’t, not after-

“I can’t,” he whispered. “It’s too much, I can’t. And I thought you didn’t want anyone touching you.”

Christophe stared at him, but nodded. “Sorry. I forgot what it was like to want to touch someone,” Christophe muttered, lowering his hand and looking down at the ground, face starting to turn a ruddy red. “I will not do it again.”

“No, it’s fine,” Gregory said, wiping furiously at his face and trying to calm himself down. “It’s fine, I just. It’s too much, and you were-” he cleared his throat, then smoothed down his hair. “It doesn’t matter. Forget it, and put these on. We’ve got to get going.”

He went to the bathroom to brush his own teeth and splash water on his face, getting rid of any evidence of tears, then waited for Christophe in the living room until he emerged, looking more put together than he normally did. Gregory quirked a small smile, then handed Christophe a spare jacket. 

“You look rather nice,” he said.

Christophe just grumbled in reply, but put the jacket on without complaint and followed Gregory out the door. He made sure to check the locks behind them, not trusting Gregory to have closed the door properly.

They walked in silence to Gregory’s office building, Christophe’s head turning about to try and watch every person and car that passed. He reached out for Gregory’s hand a few times, but pulled back once their fingers brushed, like Gregory’s touch had burned him.

It made Gregory feel guilty at his outburst, but he had to maintain some boundaries for his own sanity’s sake. He couldn’t cope again if something happened. He knew that. The veneer of normalcy would crack, and he’d be lost. It wasn’t a fact he particularly liked about himself, but he wasn’t so foolish as to deny what was true, either. Christophe’s absence had nearly broken him, and he would have to do everything in his power to prevent such weakness again.

Christophe frowned at the old brick of Gregory’s building, probably worrying about the structural stability or something equally ridiculous, but walked behind Gregory through the lobby and into the old elevator without commenting. The firm was on the top floor, and the lift crawled up the shaft then came to a shuddering stop, shaking as it aligned with the floor. 

As the doors opened, Gregory could already hear a heated argument coming from Kenny’s office, and sighed. He beckoned Christophe to follow, heading down the wood-paneled hall.

Bebe flew out of Kenny’s office, a mass of blonde fury. “Two late days in a row, Gregory!” she snapped at Gregory by way of greeting. “Please talk some sense into that moron because he said he doesn’t want to get involved, but he’s the only one Cartman will listen-” She cut off abruptly, eyes widening as they locked on Christophe skulking behind Gregory. “Wha-”

Gregory gave her a tight smile, then grabbed Christophe’s wrist and hauled him out in front. “Yes, it’s him. So forgive me if I don’t particularly care about your argument at the moment.”

Kenny came out into the hall then, face a little red after his fight with Bebe, and came to a dead stop at the sight of Christophe as well. He recovered an instant later, though, and his face broke into a broad grin as he ran forward to wrap Christophe in a bear hug.

“Back from the dead!” he yelled, stepping back from Christophe, who had gone still for a moment before relaxing into Kenny’s touch. Gregory felt a twinge of annoyance.

Christophe grinned at Kenny too. “You fucking bitch,” he said, and clapped Kenny on the back. “Hell is too full of pussies, I got bored. I’m glad to see you’re doing okay.”

“Yeah, man!” Kenny said, then grabbed Christophe by the arm and started leading him into his office. “What happened to you? You look like shit. Hey, let me show you the place! It’s pretty fucking sick. I got this new keg-”

They disappeared into Kenny’s office, leaving Bebe staring at Gregory. He looked back at her, letting his emotionless mask fall for a moment. Bebe stepped forward, and gripped his shoulder. “When did you find him? Where did you find him?”

“Yesterday morning. At the train station,” Gregory said

“Well that explains a lot, then. Are you sure you don’t need the day? Cartman can wait, it’s his usual bullshit and I’m sure we can take care of it without you.”

Gregory shook his head, giving Bebe a tight smile. “No, some normal, average blackmail would be nice. It’s something sane I can cling to.”

“How is this even possible?” Bebe asked, glancing at Kenny’s open office door.

Gregory shrugged. “I don’t bloody fucking know,” he said. “When is anything ever normal with him? He’s going to start running the tech department, if you both don’t mind. Apparently he’s turned into a hacker now.” A disbelieving laugh bubbled up from his throat, a helpless noise, and he shook his head, trying not to sound hysterical. “I don’t know what’s happened to him. He looks awful, and I’m fairly certain he’s got severe PTSD, and he’s malnourished and as belligerent and vile as ever, and he’s made a few references to being on the run. I just-” he stared helplessly at Bebe, unsure what to do.

She nodded, and squeezed his shoulder again. “Of course he can work with us. We’ve been needing to hire someone anyway. Just let us know if you need some time. We can function perfectly well without you for a few days. We’ll figure this out in time. If you’re staying, though, we’ve got shit to do. Meeting, five minutes.” She turned and walked into her office.

Gregory took a deep breath to clear his head, then poked his head into Kenny’s office. Christophe was leaning on the godawful keg, grinning and drinking lemonade out of a red plastic cup. Kenny had one too, and was sitting on the edge of his desk, pointing at the paraphernalia around his office. 

Gregory cleared his throat. “If you’re quite finished catching up, we do have work to do. Christophe, your office will be over this way.” He jerked his head, and Christophe obediently got up to follow him.

The computer room in their office was full of dust. They didn’t use it that often, and had grown accustomed to hiring outside contractors when the job required. Including external entities was always risky, though, and it would enable the firm to take on much more confidential cases if they could keep their tech department internally contained.

Christophe glanced around the room and made a noise of disgust. “Really, princesse, this is the best that you have? This shit is eight months out of date.”

Gregory glowered at him. “Well, can you use it or not?”

“I can use it, it’s just fucking shit.”

“Well, I’ll take that as your professional opinion and give you the proper paperwork to put in a request for updated information,” Gregory replied, rolling his eyes. “But maybe you should actually, oh, I don’t know, prove that you even know what you’re doing first. Now come on, we have a staff meeting about this ridiculous Cartman business.”

Christophe followed him out into the main conference room, where Bebe and Kenny sat with a few open files. Gregory glanced down at the pictures contained in one of them, then let out a disgusted sound.

“Oh, god. Not this same old nonsense again.”

“I know, I know,” Bebe said, glowering down at the pictures as well.

They were a set of images depicting two men, one red-haired and one black-haired, in various states of undress and indecency, clearly enjoying their time with each other. Gregory wasn’t sure why he’d expected anything else.

“Do you think he took these himself?” Gregory asked.

“Of course he did,” Kenny said, trying to hide a grin. “He’s been doing this same shit to the two of them since we were kids. He thinks Kyle belongs to him and wouldn’t want anyone else to be such a fucking creep around him. It’s fucked up, dude. The obsession just keeps on keeping on.”

“It wouldn’t matter, if Wendy wasn’t about to run for senator. It’s not like she gives a shit what Stan and Kyle do, and if Kyle weren’t gay as a fucking unicorn, I’m pretty sure she’d have joined them. It’s the public’s perception that’s the issue. Even on the left, people are super uncomfortable with extramarital relationships,” said Bebe. 

“Why did she even marry him in the first place,” Gregory sighed, rubbing at his eyes. 

“Good for her image,” Bebe said, shrugging. “She likes him well enough, and she doesn’t give a shit about the Kyle issue, and he’s always been too much of a fucking pussy to let go of the idea that he’s a perfect All-American football star with a white picket fence and two point five children. He’s as white bread as they come, and married politicians do better than single ones, especially women. But we can’t let these pictures get out.”

Gregory glanced over at Christophe, who was sitting and making a disgusted face down at the images. 

“Well, what does Cartman want this time, then?” Gregory asked.

“The usual,” said Kenny. “He wants Kyle to work for his company. I mean, Kyle’s the best corporate copyright lawyer on the east coast, but it’s more about the control. Cartman can’t handle the fact that Kyle doesn’t need him or want to be around him or let him have any control over his life. Like I said, it’s the same old shit.”

“Alright,” Gregory sighed. “Well, the easiest solution would be for Kyle to just give in to Cartman’s demands, for a little while. He can still have his affair with Stan, and Wendy won’t get smeared all over the front page of every paper, and Cartman will stop bothering us for a while. Has anyone gotten ahold of Kyle this morning?”

“Yeah, he’s coming in at noon,” said Bebe. “He’s pissed the fuck off and I doubt he’d agree to be under Cartman’s thumb for even a day. He might do it for Stan’s sake, though. It’s an idea.”

Kenny snorted. “Kyle cares more about Cartman than about Stan, in some ways. It’ll be a miracle if he’ll agree to it. Maybe get Stan in here too, then he’ll have a harder time saying no. He knows what how much Stan values his marriage, even if it is a sham. He wouldn’t want to hurt Stan, and if Wendy’s career is damaged, that’ll hurt him. If you focus on Cartman, though, he won’t be thinking about Stan at all. One track mind, that one.”

“And what do we do if he does say no, even if Stan asks?” Gregory said, frowning. “I’m confident that with the right media twist, Wendy’s career would be fine. Play up her acceptance of gay rights and her own need for privacy in the terms of her marriage.”

Bebe made a skeptical noise. “Maybe, but it’s way riskier. There’s so many ways that could fuck up in our faces, and then we’ll all be out of jobs.”

“For fucking fuck, you are all a bunch of fucking pussies,” Christophe grumbled from where he was slouched in his seat, head barely visible over the table. They all turned to look at him. He stared back at them, surprised.

“Come on, bitches, how hard is it to break into Cartman’s home and wipe the drive of his computer? I could probably do this. I know what his security is like.”  
Bebe frowned at Christophe. “You, by yourself, could take out the entirety of Cartman’s security force?”

“Ouais.”

She snorted. “Ok, sure, Zorro, but who the hell do you think he’s going to blame if that happens? Us, probably. He knows where Kyle’s going to turn first.”

“Cartman has a fuck ton of enemies in the corporate world,” Christophe replied, sitting up a little farther in his chair. “Pin it on one of them. Shouldn’t be too hard.” He shrugged, and pulled out a cigarette. He ignored the annoyed sound Bebe made, and soon the smell of cigarette smoke filled the room.

“It’s a possibility,” Gregory said, tapping on his lips and staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t want to risk your security, though, Christophe. You’ve said you don’t want anyone to know you’re here. It’s best if we only use that sort of illegality as a last resort. I’d rather try and come to some sort of arrangement with Kyle and Stan.” 

Christophe shrugged. “As you want, princesse, but I think that it’s a waste of time. And much less fun.”

Kenny leaned across the table and clapped Christophe on the shoulder. “Well, dude, we would hate to lose our newest member on his very first job, especially something this fucking moronic. Probably better if you stay here. Spend your time seeing if you can hack into Cartman’s system remotely before you commit to the full breaking-and-entering shebang.”

Christophe shrugged again, but nodded. Gregory felt another twinge of annoyance that he seemed to listen so easily to Kenny when Gregory had been making essentially the same argument. He smoothed a hand over his hair, trying to make the curls lie a little flatter.

“Well, that’s settled then. Let’s call Stan, and see if he can’t come meet us as well. I’m sure his precious animal foundation can manage in his absence for a few hours.” Gregory wasn’t entirely sure he’d managed to keep the disparaging note out of his voice, because Bebe was smirking at him. “Regardless, we’ll get this figured out. It’s not like this is the first time Kyle will have worked for Cartman. I’m sure we can convince him somehow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I am sorry it took me four months to get back to this story! I completely lost all motivation to write. No excuse, but I'm finally getting the ball rolling again. Thanks to everyone who's stuck around with it. 
> 
> Let me know what you think, especially about character voices. I normally write...... um... less plotty stuff involving just two characters, so it's a little weird to have so much dialogue. Heh.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy, and feel free to kick me in the ass for being so slow.


End file.
